Good Sportswomanship
by ForASecondThereWe'dWon
Summary: Peter's feeling down because he can't join the football team, so MJ makes a small confession to try to cheer him up. She might not have quite anticipated his reaction, but hey, at least he's not thinking about football anymore.


**Author's Note:**

Based on the Tumblr prompt: **"You should see me in my old uniform. I'm pretty sure it still fits."**

* * *

"I wish I could play," Peter said quietly, rubbing his knuckles along his jaw in frustration.

They were sitting in the school bleachers, watching a football game. Attendance at six home-team sporting events per year might have been mandatory for passing gym, but showing school spirit wasn't. MJ had figured her boyfriend was just sharing her lack of enthusiasm for institutionalized male power rituals by remaining quiet through the first quarter and most of the second, until he made that comment.

She stretched her back and turned to him. What was he doing? Fishing for a compliment? Well, MJ wasn't going to stroke his ego, but she also couldn't resist correcting him.

"You _could_ play."

"I'd be the best one on the field," he said as he stared straight ahead.

She rolled her eyes at his egotistical words before the embarrassment in his tone struck her. Peter gave her a sideways glance and raised his eyebrows. Ah, she understood. It'd be pretty hard to keep his abilities a secret if nerdy Peter Parker was suddenly sprinting and dodging and throwing better than any of the rest of the guys on the team―without any training. MJ seriously doubted that anyone would make the jump to wondering if he was Spider-Man, but obviously his abrupt athleticism would be suspicious.

"I didn't know you cared that much about football," she offered.

Peter laughed and it wasn't totally happy.

"I'm not really sure I do. More that I'd just like to try it. I just wonder about things," he said, shifting towards her, "you know?"

MJ studied his face, the melancholy concentrated in the tightness under his eyes and the inward pull of his eyebrows, all of that disappointment trying to drag his usually cheerful features into the center of his face like a black hole. She didn't like it.

"Sure, I know," she acknowledged, putting her hand in his when it snuck towards her. "I tried it once too."

"Tried what?"

"Organized sports." A horrible combination of words.

Peter was baffled and tugged on her hand to get her to meet his eye.

"Are you telling me you were on a _team_?" he demanded.

MJ nodded reluctantly. She'd told him to make him feel better, but jeeze, did he had to speak so loudly? The entire population of the bleachers didn't need to know she hadn't always been the quiet sarcastic girl who voluntarily sat in detention.

"A team that wasn't about memorizing information and going to decathlon tournaments?"

"You're acting like this is earthshattering news," she complained, eyelids lowered in a critical expression.

"It is!" Peter insisted, his eyes wide and insistent. "What did you play?"

"Volleyball. Last two years of elementary school."

"Wow." He was stunned and MJ found this increasingly hilarious. "Volleyball. With the kneepads and the… the shorts."

Hold up.

She gave him a look and Peter's rambling started up again, more lurching than before.

"And the ball. The net. Uh, spiking."

This right here was why MJ couldn't believe he hadn't been universally found out as Spider-Man. She could corner him with just a look and his intelligent sentences devolved into knee-jerk word association.

"What about the shorts, Peter?" she asked sweetly.

She intentionally crossed her legs so that the top one swung in his direction. Her boyfriend swallowed. Looked like she'd successfully taken his mind off of football; his gaze was wandering over her jeans like it could iron out the creases left in them since MJ had snatched them out of the dryer this morning (after leaving them sitting in there all night―woops), running late.

He blushed and she felt a tickle of heat sneak up her own neck.

"You should see me in my old uniform," MJ suggested, speaking more softly now, just for the two of them. "I'm pretty sure it still fits."

Peter's eyes flicked up to hers, suddenly intense enough to make her miss her breath and race for the next one.

"When?"

The furtiveness in his tone and expression made MJ so giddy that one side of her mouth jerked up in a smirk. (In terms of showing anything besides boredom in public, this was a lot for her.)

"When do you want to?" she asked.

"I'm going home," he announced, spinning abruptly to address Ned, who was sitting on his other side.

"What? Peter, it's gonna be halftime in another…" Ned consulted his watch. "…five minutes. We were gonna run into the cafeteria and get Doritos. Remember? Doritos!"

"I'm sick."

"Super sick," MJ added from behind him, in case her boyfriend looked as much like a liar as he sounded.

Ned frowned.

"But you're never sick. I thought, maybe, that you couldn't get sick, because of the…" He raised his eyebrows meaningfully and MJ was once again amazed by how Peter managed to get away with his truly terrible excuses. Ned knew his secret, knew him too well to buy this shit.

"Something he ate, I think," she prompted.

"You do look flushed, Peter," Betty commented, leaning around Ned with a sympathetic squint to her eyes.

"Yeah," Peter blurted, catching on. He rose to his feet too fast and belatedly clutched his abdomen. "Stomach bug."

MJ stood and rested her forehead against the back of his shoulder for a second so no one would see her roll her eyes.

"Stomach _bug_?" Ned repeated―expression both disgusted and intrigued―at a whisper that almost got lost (for her anyway―no super-senses) in the chattering amateur sports commentary of their peers, surrounding them on the bleachers. Ok, seemed like Ned was buying this shit.

"Gross, dude. No, not that kind of bug."

Peter would've stood there explaining, and probably blowing the cover that was flimsy enough already, but someone a few rows back yelled, "DOWN IN FRONT," so MJ grabbed her boyfriend by the hand and they skedaddled.

"You're an idiot," she informed them as they pounded down the metal stairs and skirted behind the bleachers.

"You always think that." He grinned at her.

"Today you're a whole lot of idiot."

Now, when she shot him a sideways glance, Peter was beaming.

"And I'm gonna see a whole lot of leg when you put on those shorts."

* * *

MJ had a fake book on her bookshelf―the kind with a hollow interior that could conceal a diary, spare keys, emergency funds, a discreet weapon (ok, he'd been spending too much time hanging out with Ms. Romanoff), but which, in this case, contained condoms―and Peter was staring at it eagerly when his girlfriend walked head-first into her bedroom. She was bent forward, laughing.

"Yeah, so, I was wrong," MJ laugh-gasped. "The uniform doesn't fit anymore."

Peter swallowed as she straightened up. The shirt wasn't bad, maybe not long enough if she lifted her arms, but the stretchy black shorts were certainly… snug. Not unlike his jeans, all of a sudden. The shorts were scrunched up at the top of her thighs, creases of strain visible as they clearly fought against her hips. He wondered what they looked like from the back.

"Are they that small all over?" He tried to ask like he was being helpful; the supportive friend during a changing room trial. "Turn around."

His girlfriend gave him a slow, knowing smiling. Damn, she always knew.

"I should probably just take them off."

"Here, uh, lemme… lemme help you." Peter motioned her closer, taking a couple steps back himself until, whoops, he was sitting on the edge of her mattress.

He hopped up again and reached for her hand. She was still wearing that sly look as she took it, allowing him to guide her closer. Peter's mouth was getting dry, his heart pounding. When his gaze fell obviously to MJ's bare legs below the shorts, she shifted from one foot to the other.

"Take your time. Not like I'm losing circulation in my legs or anything," she complained.

"Not even a please?" Peter checked with a grin. Releasing her hand, he settled both of his on her hips. It was easy to feel the taut waistband of the shorts beneath the slight overlap of her jersey.

"What, I'm supposed to beg Spider-Man to rescue me? From my own clothes?"

He cocked his head.

"It's a pretty full-service job," Peter assured her, then whipped the spandex shorts down until they clung around her thighs.

"And yet you've just half-assed it," MJ assessed. She looked from her partially lowered shorts to his eyes and raised her eyebrows.

"They're… stuck."

"Uh huh." Dry. Disbelieving.

"Really," he fibbed, shrugging like he hated to be the bearer of bad news.

"I'm narrower across the middle of my thighs than at my hips. If you can get the shorts down, you can get 'em off."

"I agree, it defies the laws of physics. Trust me, I'm gonna give Scientific American a call the minute I leave."

"Miracle of science then, that's what we're going with? Not the fact that the second you yanked my shorts down you found out I wasn't wearing underwear?"

There was an abrupt pause before Peter laughed weakly.

"Are you not? Didn't even notice." His pulse thumped in his groin where his dick was stiffening.

"There wasn't any surplus space under the shorts," she explained.

He stepped aside and nodded towards the bed.

"I can take a look from another angle," he offered. "Try to, uh, solve this for you."

She stared at him. Peter knew how difficult it must have been for his girlfriend not to roll her eyes, but she was―ironically for this situation―a good sport and played along.

"And how am I supposed to bend my knees to get on the bed?"

He frowned momentarily, then wrapped his arms around her thighs, right below her ass, and lifted, depositing her on her knees.

"Thanks, Parker."

"Full-service job."

With that, he practically lunged to retrieve a condom from the hollow book, then snapped it shut again. He stood behind her, breathing hard and unfastening his jeans with clumsy fingers―even the most dexterous hands could fumble in this kind of scenario. MJ tugged the jersey over her head and flung it aside. She leaned forward onto her hands as Peter matched her in partial nudity, only bothering to get his own jeans and boxers halfway down before unrolling the condom on his cock and stroking in light passes. After a second, he thought to remove his shirt as well. His shaky hand ran up the back of MJ's thigh and he heard her heart-skipping inhale.

"Such a shame they didn't fit," he lied blatantly, giving the band of her shorts a little snap.

"I know," she said. "What a waste of an afternoon. I could've let you stay at school and pine over football."

They both laughed, but MJ's choked off as Peter's fingers slipped up to tease between her legs. He flipped his hand over, cupping her and pushing his fingertips up against her clit. With gentle strokes, subtle nudging, he felt her getting wet―and irritated.

"Taking your time?" MJ wondered, tone on edge. Her hair swept across her back to hang over her shoulder as she glanced at him with narrowed eyes.

"Just getting ready," he said with a grin.

"You look pretty ready to me."

With an exaggerated lowering of her gaze, she zoned in on his nude hips, his rigid condom-wrapped erection.

"Hey, we're on the same side here," Peter said with joking defensiveness, rubbing her more firmly. "I'm helping _you_ get ready, former student-athlete. You never warmed up before a game? Never… stretched?"

As he said it, he shifted his hand, flipped it, and tucked two fingers inside her, easing through her growing arousal. MJ moaned, facing forward with a twitch of her neck. The sound wasn't sarcastic or fed-up. Peter kept going, curling and dragging his fingers as he withdrew them, then probing back in. Gradually, she began forcing her hips back against his hand; he felt feverish, free hand scrubbing over the hot back of his neck. His girlfriend released a more demanding groan and his hand landed on her lower back to hungrily caress her skin.

Peter felt her clenching around his fingers as she tried to stop him from removing them, but he did, then rotated his wrist to spread wetness across her clit. MJ let out a high noise that gave him goosebumps. It also gave him the urge to tilt his hips forward, pressing the length of his dick to the back of her thigh.

"I fucking swear, if you don't do it _right now_, you will never see me in shorts again."

She panted the threat and the inflexibility in her voice made him jump to comply. It wasn't like he hadn't wanted to proceed anyway―he'd just been savouring the view.

Peter lined up while MJ nearly vibrated to hold still. As he pushed in deep (containing a huff of pleasure with his mouth clamped shut), all his movement in his hips, she gradually sunk her upper body to the bed. Her braced arms folded, taking her down to her elbows, then her forehead lowered to touch her hands. The slope of her body―from the highest point, where Peter took hold of her hips, to the lowest, where her wavy hair brushed across the sheet―made it hard to catch his breath.

He rocked forward and back with light thrusts at first, but clearly he was doing something right, hitting something good; MJ's first faint noises blurred into an almost continuous sound that came from her throat. It cracked and broke and smoothed out again, in no way resembling her speaking voice, which was level to the point of flatness when she wanted it to be.

It was unbelievable to Peter―how tight she was like this, thighs prevented from spreading too wide by the tension of her shorts. Feeling a little shy about it, he glance down at his hands, holding her hips in place, then lower, leaning back slightly to watch himself enter her. But that was too much. He was overwhelmed, could barely swallow. His heart raced as he curved his body over hers, hips jerking now to the disjointed repetition of his name coming out of MJ's mouth.

She reached a hand back, feeling around for his until Peter linked their fingers. MJ brought their joined hands insistently to her chest, between her breasts, over her heart. Her palm was sweaty against his.

"Love you," she gasped.

"Love you," he panted back, wrapping his other hand around and under, finding and stroking her clit as hard and fast as Peter knew she liked it.

MJ shivered and seized, hand squeezing his and Peter sped up his thrusts until his climax caught up with hers, their rhythms as tense and adaptive as their twisting fingers. Coming out of the haze, she shuffled forward on her knees. It startled Peter, who almost tripped onto the mattress. He caught himself and carefully disposed of the condom in the garbage next to the desk where she did her homework and drew all kinds of incredible stuff that blew his mind.

He turned back to the bed to see her untangling the shorts from her legs. They laughed when their eyes met and Peter kicked off his jeans and boxers before bouncing down next to her.

"You're ok?" he checked, laying his head back on his arm. MJ didn't like to be snuggled up to, not right away, so he gave her space to stretch out her limbs.

"You weren't too rough, if that's what you're asking," she assured him with an astute raise of her eyebrow. "Only my pride is injured."

Before Peter had a chance to panic that she'd found it demeaning―the position, the use of the shorts as a restraint, something he hadn't thought of―MJ continued.

"I can't believe I told you I played sports."

"Just volleyball," he said, quickly kissing her bare shoulder. She didn't answer. "Just volleyball, M, right?"

"I'm gonna go get dressed," she said evasively, struggling to sit up. "Left my other clothes in the bathroom."

The second she scooted to the edge of the mattress, she bolted and Peter scrambled to yank his boxers back on before racing after her.

"What else did you play?!"


End file.
